


Snow White, Probably

by betp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, i'm not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shameless Snow White fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow White, Probably

So Harris hates Stiles.

It's not a secret. He hates the guy. Stiles and Scott have spent too many hours of their regular bro-time making lists of potential sources for Harris' hatred for Stiles Stilinski, and to no avail. None of their reasons, logical and imaginative (respectively) alike, seem to pan out.

Their list includes, but is not limited to, the following:

Harris doesn't appreciate Sheriff Stilinski trying to do his goddamn _job_.

Harris hates _plaid_.

Harris and Sheriff Stilinski hated each other in high school.

Harris and Sheriff Stilinski had a nasty break-up in high school.

Harris resents Stiles for being adolescent and having all his opportunities ahead of him.  

Harris is allergic to Stiles.  

Stiles annoys Harris.

Harris doesn't hate Stiles, he's in _love_ with him and _really bad_ at showing it.

"I think he wishes he were as young and pretty as you are," Allison teases after lacrosse one day, and Stiles and Scott's eyes meet. They communicate nonverbally.

_Stiles_ : Dude. Maybe.

_Scott_ : Allison is the funniest and prettiest out of every lovely person ever to float among the mortals.

_Stiles_ : Yes, I know.

_Scott_ : Are you eating your pizza crust?

As Stiles pointedly crams his pizza crust into his mouth and walks to his Jeep, he starts considering options for _solving_ the problem. He can only take so many against-regulation detentions and so much unprovoked verbal abuse before he's forced to switch schools or tattle, so the time to solve the problem is _now_. It'll be difficult, since he doesn't know the _cause_ , but he hopes it isn't something a little puppy-dog eyes and kissing of ass can't solve. It isn't like Stiles lacks the grades for sympathy. (Re: It isn't like Stiles is _Scott_.)

"I didn't know you could get pizza delivered to the school," Stiles hears suddenly, and he jumps about seventy feet into the air when he realises Derek is sitting on the hood of his car, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking uncharacteristically amicable.

Stiles swallows the last of the pizza crust and glowers. "Shouldn't you be off trying to housebreak Peter?"

"I've actually got him using the puppy pad," Derek says drily, and Stiles huffs, too irritated and fatigued at this point to give him a genuine chuckle.

"What do you want, Derek."

"Just a ride," he quips, _so_ sure, like he thinks Stiles is going to just shrug and be all like, _sure, alpha werewolf, get the fuck in my car! You can pick the fucking radio station!_ Stiles is seething and thinking this sarcastic diatribe at Derek, but he underestimates just how tired he is. In the end he does exactly that, and soon enough he's rolling along behind the wheel, the Morgan Freeman to Derek's Jessica Tandy. At least Derek doesn't pick dubstep.

"You're really pale," Derek says when they're halfway there.

"I'm—?" Stiles hacks a mirthless laugh. "I'm _pale_? _I'm_ pale." Derek nods unapologetically. " _You're_ pale."

Derek shrugs. "Not as pale as you. You're almost _blue_. You're like snow."

Stiles sort of takes offense to this. He's not _that_ pale. And like, it's barely _spring_! Stiles hasn't seen much sun yet. Derek isn't being fair. "I wouldn't quite go as far as to say I'm pale like _snow_."

"Like the moon."

And whoa, he sounds sort of rumbly and pleased, now. Stiles glances over, and Derek is staring at him like he's new and shiny, and _whoops_! Stiles just slammed on the brakes.

" _Welp_! End of the Wolf Express! This is the official termination of the Lycantaxi service. Thanks for flying WereAir!" Derek blinks at him, displeased, with the expression you might get on your face if instead of the regular music during the credits of _Titanic_ , there was suddenly, like, "Danger Zone" playing. He slides out of the seat and shuts the door, standing there and peering in through the open window. "Hasta luego!" Stiles shouts at him.

"So I guess I'm walking the rest of the way?" Derek says dully.

"Au revoir!" He drops a foot on the gas and lurches away. "Auf wiedersehen!"

In the rearview, Derek is still standing there, waving halfheartedly.

::

Stiles hangs a squealing U-turn when he pulls close enough to his house to see that Harris is on his front porch. Just—just fuckin' _sitting_ there, his car in the driveway, like that's where he goes!

That's just where Harris _lives_ now! On Stiles' _porch_! First, he was in _another_ place, and then he _wasn't_ in that place anymore! He was on _Stiles'_ _porch_. He sees the Jeep, stands and raises a finger like a concerned citizen at a town hall meeting. But fuck that. So Stiles jerks his Jeep around and heads _right_ the fuck back where he came from.

Sheriff Stilinski is out of town, doing a thing in a place, and even though Harris probably won't pull anything illegal, Stiles doesn't want to be taking any chances. Since Mama McCall has negative patience for Stiles (despite his omnipresence during the summer) and Scott is Allisoning anyway, Stiles figures he's only got one more place to go. He heads for the Hale house.

Which. It could be awkward, since he just kicked Derek out of his Jeep for admiring him baselessly. But it caught him off _guard_ , okay. Stiles has never been _admired_ before, and he isn't quite accustomed to Derek Hale making him blush. Besides, everything Stiles does has a slightly higher potential for awkward than most, so an awkward situation in his Jeep isn't going to kill him. Hopefully it'll just make him slightly more immune.

Derek is trudging along the dirt road that winds through the shadowed forest when Stiles pulls up behind him. Derek looks at him like he's looking at a child smearing snot on the glass door he's just Windexed. "Want another ride?" Stiles asks, poking his head out the window.

Derek looks like he has half a mind to pick up the Jeep and chuck it, Stiles and all, back out onto the interstate. But he doesn't do that thing. Instead, he saunters over and gets back into the passenger's seat. "Why'd you kick me out?"

"For examining me like a sexy pearl," Stiles says bluntly.

Derek doesn't refute this. He sort of shrugs and makes a _yeah, I could see that_ face. "Why are you back?"

"Harris was outside my house. I need to lay low tonight."

"And you're hoping if you _un_ dump me by the side of the road, I'll let you stay in my house."

Stiles beams at him in a fashion he hopes Derek will classify as "winning," but in the end Stiles probably has to owe his newfound welcome to his willingness to make food happen in the morning.

::

Derek wakes up and comes downstairs to find the whole level clean.

That's it. Just— _clean_. The floor is swept and mopped (at least, the parts of the floor that are stable and unbroken), the furniture dusted, the rugs beaten, the curtains pulled back. The furniture is staggeringly dust-free, and arranged pleasantly in the rooms that still have flooring. The whole place is flooded with sunlight and smells of Orange Glo, which— _ugh_ —and frying bacon. A weird combination. He follows his nose, stepping into the scents of affection, joy, cologne (which means Jackson is here), confusion (which means Isaac is here), toast, hunger—and Derek ends up in the kitchen, where Stiles is cooking at the stove, his plaid overshirt tied around his waist like it's 1995.

Peter, Isaac, and Jackson are sitting on mismatched chairs around a wobbly table, looking unruffled, delighted, and surly, respectively. The three of them turn their heads and peer at him, nary a change in expression. He cocks an eyebrow and looks at Stiles, who doesn't notice. He pads up behind him.

"Holy _shit_ ," Stiles gasps when Derek pokes a head over his shoulder to look at what he's doing. " _Warn_ a guy, okay?"

"How long have you been up?"

Stiles knocks Derek in the jaw with his shoulder when he shrugs. "I dunno. Since dawn? I'm doing scrambled," he gestures with a wooden spoon to the yellow mess of eggs in the pan, "since I can only do scrambled or soft-boiled." He looks at Derek, and Derek looks back. "I'd say boiled in _general_ , but I always get impatient and take them out before they can be hard-boiled."

"When you said you'd provide breakfast," Derek tells him, "I thought you meant you'd go get food. Or call for delivery. Or something." Stiles shoulder-punches him again. Derek doesn't care. "I didn't even know the stove _worked_."

The eggs are perfect. They're _perfect_. He doesn't know what Stiles _did_ , but they're the most _heavenly_ scrambled eggs he's ever had the privilege of putting into his mouth. They're _immaculate_. Derek feels like weeping or marrying Stiles or something. "It's good," he tells Stiles, offhand.

Stiles smirks at him like he could hear his thoughts or something, which is ridiculous. Isn't it? Right? That's ridiculous, _right_? These motherfucking _eggs_.

"These are the best eggs _ever_ ," Isaac says, eliciting a pleased grin from Stiles.

"Why'd you clean the house?" Jackson asks.

Stiles shrugs. "I woke up and needed something to do. And you guys shouldn't be sleeping in a house as dusty as this one was. Drink your orange juice."

Peter lugs out his most put-upon look (Stiles is unimpressed around a mouthful of bacon), but its effect is sort of dampened by the sound of Isaac and Jackson cheerily chugging their juice immediately.

::

Everyone goes away, and Stiles stays in the house, because of reasons. For one, he's got chem today, and all the Stilinski false bravado in the world couldn't prepare him for explaining to Harris why he tore away, tires squealing, at the sight of him last night. For two, he only got to the main floor this morning, and he's just popped some Adderall and there are at least two other floors to tackle. For three, Derek's face when he realised he had a clean house and a plate of hot breakfast was _priceless_ , okay. Derek's face is _priceless_. It has no _price_. With the green eyes and the chin and that fucking nose. And the eyebrows.

So maybe Stiles was doing some sexy pearl examinations of his own. Haters gonna hate.

There may or may not be hipster pop crap playing on his iPod, and he may or may not be lip-synching admirably while he scrubs what's left of Derek's bathroom, when he thinks he hears something. He yanks his earphones out and there is definitely someone coming into the house. He pops over to the top of the stairs to see, and it's _motherfucking holy shit hell bitch fuck no_ Harris.

"Uh, M-Mr. Harris," Stiles squeaks. He's holding a feather duster. He chucks it vaguely to his left.

"Stilinski boy," says Harris, head lolling on his shoulders maniacally.

" _Not_ Mr. Harris." Stiles catches on quickly.

Not-Harris starts walking up the stairs with a gait Stiles might typically ascribe to a man whose tendons have been removed from the backs of his knees. This doesn't seem to bother Not-Harris, as he continues to advance steadily. "I went to your home in search of you, and found only this man, swearing and ranting about you. He seemed like the perfect candidate for a body."

Why? Who cares? "S-so, uh, what—are you? And what do you want?" Stiles backs up away from Not-Harris, trips on a tattered rug, and falls backwards with a thud.

Not-Harris shrugs, and Stiles notices that his eyes are cloudy, unfocused. "Let's just say I don't particularly like you or your friends."

"So this is a werewolf thing," Stiles says from the floor.

"You might say that."

That's really the end of Stiles' consciousness. He's gone, floating in indistinct and upsetting nightmares before he can even begin to piece together what's possessed Not-Harris. So _that's_ a shame.

::

Derek comes home to Isaac and Peter standing at the top of the stairs, looking at the floor. Derek can hear Isaac chewing his nails outside, so he hops up the steps and peers down with them. Stiles is curled up there on the landing, eyes shut and lips pursed.

"He's asleep," Derek says.

"You're a genius," Peter replies.

"He's not asleep." Isaac nudges him roughly with the toe of his shoe, and Stiles is fluid and moveable, but does not wake. "We were in boy scouts together in the third grade. He kicks and talks in his sleep. Endlessly."

"He's unconscious," Derek says.

"You should be in MENSA," Peter replies.

Derek shoulders Peter out of the way and inspects Stiles. He appears to be unscathed. He also appears to be every possible definition of the word 'adorable.' Derek scoops him up, sitting him upright. Stiles' head flops over onto Derek's shoulder. "Stiles?" Derek shakes him, remembers the time Stiles woke him up with a strong punch to the jaw. He slaps him.

"Not that it's going to help, but hit him again," Peter says.

Derek does not. "He smells weird. There was something here."

"Did something attack him?" Isaac sounds strangled.

"Try biting him." Peter just sounds curious.

Derek ignores them both and carries him outside. He drops him into the passenger seat of the Camaro (they follow dumbly behind) and drives him over to Deaton's.

::

Deaton hums interestedly, turning Stiles' head this way and that. He lifts Stiles' blanched, limp wrist, feels his pulse, and then drops it with a clang onto the metal table. Stiles is too tall for the table; his legs hang off the edge from the knee down. "Funny. I haven't seen one of these in a while."

"One of what," Derek demands. He's long since stopped trying for nonchalance. His tension is clearly palpable, because Isaac is nearby, intensely staring holes into Stiles' face, and even Peter is uncomfortable (although he seems to be expressing it more with increasingly frequent sighs of frustration). Stiles' lashes seem to blur into the shadows beneath his eyes; he frowns slightly every couple minutes, only soothed back into relaxation when someone touches him. Mostly Derek touches him. Grips his wrists, shakes him, rubs warmth back into his fingers, presses the pad of his thumb where Stiles' eyebrows try to meet in a furrow. It's a confusing medley of nice in its novelty and unnerving in its foreignness to see Stiles void of his typical, hyperactive jitters and tics: Derek spends a good amount of energy puzzling over this new version of Stiles. Peter thinks Derek's concern is funny.

Basically, Stiles has been unconscious for who knows how long, and in the half hour since they found him, Peter has snorted derisively at Derek roughly every two minutes.

"There are many names for them," Deaton tells Derek, "but what you need to know is that young Stiles, here, is trapped in perpetual slumber."

How… how grimm. He's just having a perma-siesta. Forty winks, only it's an endless number of winks. Infinite winks. "Can we fix it?"

"It can be fixed," Deaton says, "by only Derek."

"Scott is going to kill us," Isaac groans, shaking his head at the lifeless pile of Stiles. "He was at our house for all of one night."

"Forget Scott. His dad is going to shoot at us." Peter frowns. "It'll suck."

Deaton casts an appraising look over the both of them. "You two watch him. Make sure he's okay."  He looks at Derek. "You, come with me into my office."

Derek follows Deaton numbly from the room, pausing at the door to take one last chagrined look at Stiles' wilted form. He looked peaceful with Derek standing beside him, but now he just looks ruined, gaunt, twisted. Or maybe it's Derek's imagination. Derek shuts the door behind him.

"So Derek, I'd like to ease you into this, but I've got a sick doberman I need to give medicine to, so I'm just going to be blunt."

Derek squirms under Deaton's gaze. "Blunt about what."

"You're in love with Stiles and that's the only thing that can save him." Derek splutters, but as said before, Deaton doesn't have time. "The thing that did this to him was trying to hurt you by taking away the newest member of your pack, but it wasn't expecting him to be of immediate access to his mate, so the plan is foiled."

"His what?"

" He just needs—"

"Wait. No, his _what_?"

Deaton huffs. "Derek, I know it's a shock. It'd be easier for you to tell if he was a werewolf, but he's not. So you need to tune in. He just needs you to address the bond between you, physically."

Derek feels blood shoot into his face. "You mean you want me to—"

"No, Derek." Deaton is indulgent, if a little frustrated. "You just need to kiss him."

That's a little better. At least, it would be if it weren't for the part about how wrong Deaton is. Deaton is the mayor of Wrongville. "He's not my—I'm not his—"

"Yes, he is. Yes, you are."

"But he's not even—"

"He doesn't need to be."

"But how did—"

"Everyone knows. Ask your uncle."

"But I'm just supposed to—"

"Yes."

Derek clams up, then, and fixes an empty, terror-ridden stare at the wall behind Deaton's head. Unconcerned, Deaton begins gathering up a can of dog food and a small bottle of pills.

"Your father would be better at explaining this to you," Deaton says apologetically, when he pauses at the door.

Derek squirms, looks at his sneakers. After taking a moment to drop a hopeful, reassuring grasp to Derek's blocky shoulder, Deaton strides out of the room to tend to a dog. Derek is pensive.

His mate. Stiles. Stilinski. The tall, gawky kid with the attitude problem and the dumb sense of humour.

Stiles, who is now in some kind of fitful, magical slumber that Deaton didn't explain.

Alone in a room with sad Isaac and aggravated Peter.

Derek puffs back into the room like a train into a station, and Peter is pinching Stiles' nose. He steps swiftly back, clearing his throat. Derek spares him, giving only an irritated glare. He slams his palms onto the metal table on either side of Stiles' head, effectively wiping away the disgruntled expression on his unconscious face. If Deaton's wrong, Derek is about to do a smooch on Stiles for no reason. He will gain nothing from this kiss.

Well. Well, not _nothing_. At _least_ he'll have kissed Stiles.

Not that he's thought about this before. Oh, jeez.

Derek drops down and lays one on him. Peter inhales sharply; Isaac _eep_ s; the entirety of the state of California breaks into ecstatic applause; maybe Derek just imagines that last bit. Who cares? Who cares if he imagined that? Who _cares_ if Peter is having a coughing fit and Isaac is staring raptly? Fuck it. Fuck it _all_. Stiles has nice lips, soft and warm and inviting, and if Derek's already accomplished or failed his task, he doesn't really care, because Stiles tastes sweet and pleased, and he's knitting his fingers through Derek's hair and it's pretty much exactly what Derek wanted.

It's like he didn't realise he was hungry until he took a bite out of the most perfect burger ever created.

Suddenly, it registers that Stiles is kissing him back. Stiles is awake. Derek jolts back, breaking the kiss with a smacking _pop_ , and Stiles is blinking, dazed and satisfied, propped up on his elbows on the table.

"Well, that was—uh. It was." Peter is, for _once_ , at a loss for words.

"Awesome?" Stiles croaks. "You woke me up."

Derek nods awkwardly.

"How did you—well, I mean." Stiles fidgets, squirms his way off the table, onto his feet. He's blushing, and Derek wants to kiss him until they both drown in it.

He catches Stiles in his arms, nuzzles against him. Stiles seems delighted.

"Uh, we'll just, ah—" Peter grabs Isaac's arm and manhandles him towards the door.

Derek just waves them away with his hand. "You're my mate, apparently," he tells Stiles.

"Your _mate_ , huh." Stiles sighs, dreamily. "That sounds _awesome_."

"It will be. I think."

Stiles is awake. There is no need to continue kissing him. Oddly enough, Derek's doing it anyway.

::

Scott is eating a corndog when Stiles gets on Skype around 7 or 8 that night. He can smell the preservatives in it, which sounds like it would be distasteful, but Scott's a teenager with cheap tastes. He chews on it with gusto. "Dude, you weren't at school," is the first thing Scott says to Stiles. "You didn't text me back."

"Sorry. No, I wasn't at school," Stiles agrees.

"Did something happen?"

"Yes, something happened."

Scott gnaws on his corndog, and Stiles sighs visibly, languorously. Finally Scott prompts, " _What_?"

"Harris got possessed by a thing," Stiles tells him, as if startled into doing so. "I got put into a magical coma. Derek kissed me awake. I guess I'm his mate." Scott starts coughing, choking on the corndog. "Dude," Stiles says, alarmed. "Keep coughing. Cough it up and breathe."

"Wait," Scott says, his voice a flattened death rattle. He lifts a palm like a crossing guard, and chugs half a can of Red Bull, Stiles watching with concern.  "Harris?" Scott eventually manages. "Harris was po—Mr. _Harris_? I—we did have a sub today. Is that why— _coma_? Derek Hale _kissed you_?"

Stiles beams, which—of course. "He kissed me a _lot_. It's what woke me up. Because I'm his mate."

Scott looks like an interpretive dancer, moving his hands like he's physically shifting the information around, shuffling it so it makes sense. It doesn't fit together; there are missing pieces. "What possessed him?"

"Dunno."

"Why'd he go for you."

"Not sure."

"You're Derek's mate."

"Abso _lute_ ly."

"The _hell_ is a mate."

"Super-boyfriend. Hell, _I_ don't know. I was going to ask him _later_ , because today I kept getting distracted and making _out_ with him."

Scott claps his palms onto his temples, fingers curling over his head. "What happened to _Harris_?"

"Dunno."

"Why did the mate-kiss wake you up?"

" _No_ clue."

"Does _anyone_ know _anything_!" Scott bursts out, but Stiles just shrugs, blithe and unbothered. Suddenly, Scott sits up straight. "Someone is behind you." He points uselessly, eyes on the black shape behind Stiles in his room, near that stupid mural thingy he put up there when he was thirteen.

Stiles turns, addresses the humanoid figure in his room. "Oh! Wow! You need to _not_ do that."

"Sorry," says Derek, muffled to the point of Scott having to turn up his speakers to hear him. "You weren't answering your phone."

"Oh." Stiles turns back to Scott, looking amused and guilty already. "I'm—I'll talk to you _later_ …"

Scott glowers, and Stiles hangs up on him.

**Author's Note:**

> lol *honks your nose*


End file.
